The Pauper's Funeral
What! and not one to heave the pious sigh! Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye For social scenes, for life’s endearments fled, Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead! Poor wretched
Poems On The Slave Trade – Sonnet VI
High in the air expos’d the Slave is hung To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, tho’ awaked by that fierce Sun New torturers live to drink their parent
Sonnet 03
Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year Has past unheeded onward. To the vale Of years thou journeyest. May
Rudiger – A Ballad
Author Note: Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or Small barge make toward the shore, drawn by
High in the air exposed
High in the air exposed the slave is hung, To all the birds of heaven, their living food! He groans not, though awaked by that fierce sun New torturers live to drink their parent
Sonnet 06
(to a brook near the village of Corston.) As thus I bend me o’er thy babbling stream And watch thy current, Memory’s hand pourtrays The faint form’d scenes of the departed days, Like the
Birth-Day Ode 03
And wouldst thou seek the low abode Where PEACE delights to dwell? Pause Traveller on thy way of life! With many a snare and peril rife Is that long labyrinth of road: Dark is
The Race Of Banquo
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly! Leave thy guilty sire to die. O’er the heath the stripling fled, The wild storm howling round his head. Fear mightier thro’ the shades of night Urged his
Inscription 07 – For A Tablet On The Banks Of A Stream
Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze, That loves to ripple o’er the rivulet, Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound Of running waters
Ode Written On The First Of January
Come melancholy Moralizer come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath; With me engarland now The SEPULCHRE OF TIME! Come Moralizer to the funeral song! I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
Sonnet 04
What tho’ no sculptur’d monument proclaim Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear Inshrin’d the sad remembrance; yet thy name Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR The child of murdered HOPE, fed
Sonnet 10
How darkly o’er yon far-off mountain frowns The gather’d tempest! from that lurid cloud The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud Tho’ distant; while upon the misty downs Fast falls in shadowy streaks the
The Well of St. Keyne
A Well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An
Porlock
Porlock! thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown, The waters that roll musically down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Recalls to memory, and the
Birth-Day Ode 01
O my faithful Friend! O early chosen, ever found the same, And trusted and beloved! once more the verse Long destin’d, always obvious to thine ear, Attend indulgent.